A Sea of Sinking Dreams
by Scarecrowqueen
Summary: Jack Frost and the people of his village have long stood against the tyranny of the Nightmare King Pitch Black and his army of Shadowmen and Fearlings. Today however, that's about to change. Today, Pitch plans to put and end to the resistance. What Jack soon discovers though, is that he is far to valuable a prize to simply be killed. Prequel to "One Hand on the Devil" Pitch/Jack
1. No Footsteps to Follow

So this is an RP collaboration with APurpleAvacado, with her playing the Pitch to my Jack. The goal is to sketch out the time Jack was held captive up to the events of my fic "One Hand on the Devil." We may go past that too and into sequel territory, time will tell.

* * *

The silence that shrouded the night was broken not by the uniformed marching of an army, by the whispering and hissing of almost tangible darkness. It was a subtle sound, more apt at inducing nightmares than alarming people, but just as effective at inflicting fear upon the waking masses. The shapeless creatures glided through the air, the numbers so great that those stood beneath the encroaching darkness would lose sight of the moon quite rapidly.

Fearlings, they were called. Moaning and whirling and curling around their victims, whispering hateful and hurtful things. Inciting such fear into their hearts as to petrify them completely. The Shadowmen were capable of almost literally scaring their foes to death...of course. The axes helped, too. Then, of course, there were the Nightmares themselves – elegant, graceful horses - composed of the corrupted dream sand that the Nightmare King had liberated from the nomadic Dreamweavers. They often proved to be harbingers of doom. It was a weapon the War King was fond of using. He sent dreams to his foes, bad ones. Each worse than the last. By the time his armies arrives, his foes were often too frightened of the images he had put in their heads to put up a real fight. They tried of course, but all failed.

Tonight, his Dark army marched through the snow-laden lands to the South of his own Kingdom, having been content until now to leave the Winter Spirits to their own devises...upon realising that fewer and fewer of his border patrols were returning home at full strength. The War King had had quite enough of those pale miscreants creating trouble for him. He had bigger, more important fish to fry and once he disposed of the guppies he could get back to the real war.

He had sent his Nightmares.

He was coming.

They'd had no warning.

It had been just like any other night. Jack had tucked his sister in, sung her their favorite old lullaby, and then blown out the lantern, crawling into his own bed mere feet away. Their home was small, one room with a bare earthen floor and only a single window with which to let in the daylight, but it was theirs, and in the years after their parent's death it had been the home where Jack raised his little sister as best he could. He hated to say it, but war had been good for them. Work had been scarce for a young man with no skill in trade, but when the first Fearlings had come, and it was discovered how very powerful Jack was, well, the village had wasted no time in pressing him the small cadre of men that made up the town guard, and despite his youth, he flourished. Together the Fearlings were kept at bay, their evil barely licking the edges of the Winterland borders before being turned back to whence they came.

But it wasn't enough, this time.

They had come in the night, as the town lay slumbering, and within moments the first few families were dead in their beds or worse, kidnapped to be turned into Fearlings themselves. A handful had awoken and managed to raise an alarm, but there were just too many to fight. Jack had flown from his bed, staff in hand, leaping into action once he was sure his sister was locked safe and sound in their tiny root cellar. He'd thrown himself into the fray, shooting plumes of his deadliest frost at any and all incoming enemies, ignoring the telltale signs of magical exhaustion that set in quickly under the extreme duress of his frantic actions. It was too little too late though, within minutes the town was aflame, the smoke choking and blinding Jack. He spun dizzily, disoriented and bleeding from a handful of wounds, realizing that his town, his people, were all as good as dead, and only escape could save them now. He'd never made the trip back home so fast before, crossing town in a matter of seconds, but he was too late. The root cellar door was torn clean off the hinges, and the only sign of his sister left behind was the rag doll she was rarely without.

Sobbing, chest heaving with both grief and the struggle to breathe through the ash and smog in his lungs, Jack stumbles into the woods in a random direction, not even properly seeing the forest before him. Instead, he finds himself merely staggering from tree to tree, until, finally, utterly spent, he collapsed at the foot of a great fir tree, slipping into unconsciousness without fanfare.

When he awoke what could have only been a short amount of time later as it was still night, he found himself staring straight up into the ghastly face of a rather large Fearling. Jack froze, breath caught in his still-sore lungs, as the thing leaned down to sniff at him. The Fearling reared back suddenly something like maniacal glee on its features, tipping its head back and roaring; a great, terrible sound. The answering cries from the distance made Jack realize that he'd probably been recognized by his scent, the collective hive-mind the Fearlings shared obviously allowing them the pin him as the main threat the village had boasted.

Far too weak to summon the wind to fly, and staring at the looming darkness above him, watching the shadows lengthen and gather in the branches of the tress around him, Jack knew there was only one thing he could do if he wanted to survive.

Jack scrambled to his feet, dodging the lunge of the surprised Fearling, and ran.

Another roar broke the tranquil silence of the snow-covered landscape. Well, it was more of a screech really, with low rumbling cries from the Shadowmen that still scoured the lost village for survivors. The Fearlings were faster, but no one was faster then the Nightmare King himself, if the legends were true. In pursuit of the pale-haired boy, the Fearlings began to gather in greater and greater numbers, weaving through the trees, shrouded by the natural darkness that encroached upon the winter spirit more and more with every passing moment, whispering painful words.

As they neared, some began to weave around the boy, lacing their shapeless forms through his legs in the hopes of unnerving him. By now it was clear that they were upon him – toying with him, playing upon his fears. His sister was gone. He was alone. No one left to love and be loved by. He would never know why. Why his sister. Why his family. The Fearlings began to grasp at the sprite's pale flesh, shrouding him slowly in darkness even as he tried to run, their rasping voices cold and chill, spending spike of fear through their target. He would never know...if they had converted his sister into one of them.

Their merciless whispering and their cackling did not stop even as they decided they were done playing, and quickly pounced upon the boy, submerging him in suffocating darkness and sending him into a fitful slumber. There would be no peaceful dreams for the sprite that night.

When he awoke, he would find himself seemingly alone...although it became obvious that upon hearing the constant whispering and eerie snickering that he was not. There was little to no light in the room, almost as if the moonlight was afraid to shine through the tall, otherwise welcoming windows. Large and grand as they were, the light would not come. At the back of the room, in front of the Sprite, sat a dark throne, made of the darkest metal known to man. Lead mined from the volcano that was situated not far from the dark sorcerer's castle, which was situated upon a tall hill...so if the volcano were to erupt, the structure would be completely safe. Of course, that particular volcano was unique, in the way that the lava it held was not normal. It was blue, and a strange glow emitted from the mountainous death-trap. That was the light that filtered through the windows, casting the room in a strange blue light. That of course, was the only real colour that the castle seemed to possess.

It seemed as if the building was designed to trap the darkness within its walls, after all, how does one protect an army that can only survive in the shadows. Of course, the Warlord Kozmotis would be a fool to leave his castle unprotected during the day, when he too, suffered from limited movement. There were spells cast all over the castle and an Ally that inhabited the forest as the base of the Castle's high perch, near the volcano, a man known as the Monkey King. A daylight Ally, known for his quick temper and violent tendencies...with a love for hunting. He was a fool of a man...cursed by Queen Toothiana's protectors themselves when the then-future Queen was still too young to rule. He was a foolish man, but he was smart enough to pick the winning side of the war, with a grudge deep enough to allow Pitchiner total control over his monkey-men of an army.

It would become obvious that the dark room was the throne room, and further more...other than the Fearlings, it was devoid of inhabits, at least, any inhabitants that held any real authority. Wherever the Sorcerer King Kozmotis was...it was not this room.

Jack rose to his feet slowly, immediately noticing the absence of his staff. He felt naked without it, keenly aware of the disadvantage he was at. With his staff, he may have had a fighting chance. But, as is, injured and grief-stricken and still suffering from magical exhaustion, he was as good as a sitting duck, and the only place to hide in a cavernous room was the throne. The tall, black, macabre throne, which looked about as inviting as barbed wire.

Without conscious consent, Jack found himself wandering over to it, in curiosity. He hesitantly reached out, running two fingers over the right arm. The metal was blacker then tar, and smooth as marble, coming to wicked sharp points at odd places all over the structure. His hand came to the end of the arm, but as he went to follow the curve of it into the back, he gasped and yanked backwards, having pricked his fingertip on a previously unnoticed sharp point. Hissing in pain, he hastily sucked his injured finger into his mouth, feeling something hot and strange throb beneath his skin, like the maliciousness of the very seat had somehow crawled inside. It took him but a moment to realize that the room was hissing back, shadowy things creeping in the very corners, skittering along the edges of his vision, but when he turned his head, they were gone. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and he swore he could feel eyes upon his back, and hot, fetid breath against his cheek, but there was nothing he could see, nothing he could hit when he shrieked and flailed his arms. The noises suddenly increased, turning into a strident wail from all corners of the room, yet absolutely nowhere at the same time. It buzzed reverberating in Jack's brain as he cried out and fell to his knees, hands over his ears and blood leaking from beneath his palms.

Abruptly, the sound cut off, and Jack gasped at the relief of pressure against his sensitive eardrums. The silence seemed to ring loudly in his ears, but maybe that was just damage to his hearing, Jack didn't know. Somehow though, despite the kitten-softness of the footstep, Jack heard it, or felt it somehow, and his head jerked up to face the man. The man responsible for the war, for the death of his village, for Jack's own imprisonment.

The Nightmare King himself.

The man was tall and grey-skinned, clad entirely in a black robe with lavish gold detailing across the breast and shoulders; the curling lines seemed to slither like snakes across the fabric, changing with every blink. The man had a thin, severe face, was nearly as narrow at the shoulders as at his hips, and carried himself with the kind of poise that Jack would expect from royalty, usurper to the throne or not.

For a moment, the King stood there, allowing himself to be seen, to be stared at. No doubt the boy was petrified – to have been swallowed by darkness only to wake up in an unfamiliar place – it was understandable...and it was endlessly amusing. "Good evening," he started, as he proceeded to step back into the shadows once more "Jack." He said, his tone cordial, yet chillingly empty, his form disappearing into the darkness. Then, cold chuckling seemed to echo through the room, coming from the left, then suddenly, the right.

Then.

"Didn't think I knew your name." Behind him.

The Nightmare King was now sat, comfortably upon his throne, watching Jack through half-hooded eyes. Despite the Throne's unwelcoming appearance, it wasn't hard to believe that the dark sorcerer would look so at home upon the imposing monstrosity.

Jack stares, feeling his heart pound like a drum, blood rushing in his ears in his fright. He's sure, no, positive, that people in the next room over could hear it. He swallows hard, trying to force the feeling down, but is utterly unsuccessful. The silence stretches on, long uncomfortable minutes, before Jack can muster the will to speak. He could be brave enough for this even if it was mostly bravado.

"You don't seem like the hostage-taking type. What do you want with me?"

"I wanted a look at you." Kozmotis admitted, before slowly sinking into the shadows set against his throne, and reappearing a moment later right beside Jack, making sure to linger in the boy's peripheral vision "Is that such a crime?" He said with a chuckle, reaching forwards, surprisingly soft finger tips almost caressing Jack's pale chin as he turned the boy to face him "you are young, aren't you." More of an observation than a question. The Nightmare King's tone was that of a curious observer, his smile pleasant enough, although something about the kindness within the expression rang false. How could it be that such a waif of a boy had presented such a threat to his army? Well. Not so much a threat, Kozmotis decided...but a mild inconvenience. He was strong enough to be a significant distraction when it came to the ultimate destruction of the boy's village. Such a fascinating young man.

Jack couldn't quite stop the shudder that seized him at the touch of the Nightmare King's long, thin fingers to his face. He desperately wanted to step back, to lash out, to run away, but fear and those wicked golden eyes kept him pinned in place. He presses his lips together, until they are a thin, white line, steeling himself to remain calm and still in the hopes that, somehow, like most predators the King would lose interest in any prey that didn't run. It took all of his willpower and fortitude to stand firm in front of the man often proclaimed to be 'fear itself.'

Deep down however, Jack knew that he could never be that lucky, and that at any moment, the hand on his face could become a blade at his throat. Or worse even, but Jack refused to allow himself to contemplate anything that didn't end in the mercy of death.

Chuckling, Kozmotis enjoyed the almost palpable fear that permeated from the youth's body. His Fearlings seemed to enjoy the scent too, given that they had begun to pipe up, their hissing increasing in volume, harsh whispers of all of Jack's fears filling the room, eager for more of the frightful feast that was Jack Frost. His touch leaving the boy's chin, Kozmotis took a step back "Of course, you're frightened," He commented, stepping back into the shadows for a moment, his voice filling the room, seeming to come from everywhere at once. "I understand."

Then, materialising quite suddenly behind Jack, Pitchiner's smile was indulgent "but I have something of yours, Jack." His staff, clasped firmly in both of those deadly hands, fingers curling gracefully around the aged wood "Would you like it back, Jack?" He asked, in a tone too sweet to be genuine. "Might it make you more comfortable to have it?"

Jack held his breath, staring hard at the staff clenched in Pitch's hands, the familiar pale wood a made a mockery in the grey-skinned grip. He couldn't stop the helpless little twitch of the fingers of his right hand toward the beloved object, before he made it into a fist to prevent another involuntary outburst. Not that he wasn't positive that Pitch had already seen it and recognized his longing, but it was the principle of the thing. It took everything Jack had to straighten his spine and square his shoulders in a display of false bravery, ignoring the wrathful hissing from all the dark corners of the room. Forcing himself to swallow with a suddenly dry throat, Jack dared lift his eyes to meet the King's.

"It's can't be that simple. What's the catch?"

At that, the Nightmare King smirked "Fight me..." He said, his tone like one used to sooth a crying child, his fingers travelled slowly over every groove of the aged wood in his hands. Sturdy, but old. "If you win...you can keep it, and your freedom." He moved then, tapping the staff against the black marble floor a few times, the sound echoing throughout the grandiose room eerily, and the hissing from the shadows picked up again, almost as if Pitchiner had given a command of sorts...they were certainly up for a fight. That much was obvious. "And if you lose...this staff is mine." He paused, before he fixed Jack with a stare, an almost evil glint in those silver eyes that glittered with the occasional fleck of gold, and a malicious smile "And so are you."

Jack sucked in a breath, dropping his eyes to the floor and feeling almost light-headed with fear. He'd never fought without his staff. He could barely do more then make simple frost patterns without it acting as a channel for his magic, the truth be told. Even without his magic, Jack utilized his staff as a weapon outright, and he had little to no skill in unarmed combat. And while Jack knew himself to be clever and wily, that was nothing compared to the strategic mind and sheer raw power the Nightmare King brought to the battlefield.

It was a fools bet, a game he was designed, no, _destined_ to lose.

But really, what choice did he have? He was doomed either way.

Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't going to do absolutely everything he could to catch some kind of a lucky break. He was impulsive and reckless by nature, but he was definitely not stupid. Snapping his eyes back to the man before him, Jack spoke.

"What are the terms of engagement?"

Rules of Engagement? The King raised a brow. He hadn't expected the boy to ask such a question, but, then again...he was technically a soldier, wasn't he? So of course he would know of the procedure. "You will have your staff for the battle." Kozmotis said slowly, almost as if reading Jack's thoughts. "Don't worry," he said with a chuckle. "But I will also have mine." He said gesturing upwards almost languidly, the Fearlings letting out almost ghostly cackles.

Then, Pitchiner took the staff into both hands again "I was never going to kill you," He explained to Jack almost as if he were disappointed "Feel free to _try_ and kill me, though." He continued with a chuckle "You won't get anywhere without excessive use of force." That said, weren't the rules supposed to be fair? Certainly, Jack using dangerous force was fair, wasn't it? Besides, it made things much more interesting... it also made sense, if Pitchiner were to kill the boy, there would have been no point in his making the bargain for the staff.

Slowly, Pitchiner began to move around the room, disappearing behind a pillar before reappearing moments later behind Jack, smirking slightly "Are you ready? Jack."

Jack whipped around to face his adversary, eyes hard, trying to ignore the prickling of a thousand unseen eyes on his exposed back. If Pitch wasn't intending to kill him, then that meant he had worse things in mind for Jack to experience. Jack's only hope was to somehow either escape, or to goad the Nightmare King into killing him outright. Jack was young, terrified, and he did not want to die. But, even more so, he didn't want to discover the depths of the sadistic man's depravity firsthand.

"I'm ready." Jack managed to say somehow keeping his voice even. Extending one hand, he mustered all his courage to look the monster in the eye. "My weapon, please, _you're highness_"

And okay, maybe taunting the bad guy wasn't the smartest thing on Earth, but never let it be said that Jack's sarcastic side did what it was supposed to.

It could almost be said that the Nightmare King was impressed with Jack's gall. He let out a chuckle then, the humour in his voice dark when he next spoke "very well, Jack." He said, off-handedly tossing the staff in Jack's direction "let it not be said that you do not have manners at the very least." It was then he paused long enough to summon something from out of the darkness, watching as it curled around his body following every curve for a moment before gathering in his hand, allowing itself to be shaped into the form of a spear. It was tall, dark and thin, sparkling in what little light was filtering into the room, like navy blue glitter, the colour only emphasised by the unnatural hue of the lava from which the light originated.

Pitchiner's famed black sand. The stuff of Nightmares...quite literally.

"Let's begin, shall we." 'Manners' aside, Kozmotis would make Jack regret his petulant tone and sarcastic demeanour.

Jack caught the staff with a firm hand, tightened his grip as soon as he had it, his frost flowing along its length, curling into intricate patterns and glowing faintly with the hint of his power. He knew it would likely not make a difference in the end, but he felt much better now that he had his primary weapon back. The staff had been his most of his life, and without it he felt more than naked; it was a feeling akin to having one's soul stripped bare. Taking a calming breath to steel himself, Jack gave the staff a couple of fancy twirls, re-familiarizing himself in his grip, a deep-seated paranoia driving him to ensure that it had not somehow been tampered with. Finding nothing obvious, Jack jerked his chin in a sharp nod, doing his best to ignore the creeping sensation of doom caused by the King's summoning of his own weapon. Jack found himself carefully squashing the thought that he was staring at the weapon that had felled hundreds, if not thousands of innocent people, instead looking up to address the taller man directly.

"Appears to be in order. In that case, hope you don't mind if I start us off."

And in grand Jack Frost fashion, the boy threw himself at his adversary, bringing his staff to bear, frost at the ready.

Kozmotis Pitchiner had always been eloquent, but more than that, he had always been a man of action – a warrior, and a great strategist. After all, without these three qualities, how could he have ever thought to throw the world into fear and chaos. It had only taken a few victories to get himself noticed, and a few more to be taken seriously. Now of course, he practically ruled the world. No-one dared to stand up to him, and it was so refreshing to have someone face him, with _true_ fighting spirit. It was the perfect way to relieve himself of his perpetual boredom.

Smirking, King's swarms of darkness swallowed him, and he disappeared from Jack's line of sight, and he moved, travelling through the darkness faster than one could blink only to reappear mere feet before Jack, the handle of his staff meeting Jack's middle and throwing him back into a nearby wall, knocking the air from the sprite-like youth's lungs.

The crack of his head against the wall sending star burst of pain across his skull, and Jack slumps to his knees, dizzy with pain and a lack of air, his shoulder shaking as he forces himself to draw great, shuddering breaths against the agony in his gut and temples. There's too much on the line though to stay down, to just give up, even though it seems like the easier option. Trembling, he forces himself to his feet, fighting against the pain to brace himself for his next attack.

"That all you got?" Jack asks, putting as many haughty overtones into his words as he can manage. He doesn't wait for his adversary to respond however. Instead, gritting his teeth, he charges forward again, only to pull to the left at the last second in an attempt to launch a surprise attack at the King's unguarded flank. He swings his staff in a tight arc toward his foe, sending a plume of his coldest frost right toward the other mans' ribs.

Even if the boy had been expecting a response, he would not have gotten one. The King of Nightmares was not the warrior he was because he taunted his foe. Silence was just as aggravating, and it honestly allowed the King to focus more, which is why, when the other's attack didn't meet him head on as he had expected, grey eyed flecked with gold widened for a moment, before he swung his arm out, waves of sand coming to block the path of the ice. Unfortunately, the force of the blow was enough to make Kozmotis stumble back a few steps, and rather than allow Jack the opportunity to attack again, he fell into the nearby shadows

For a time, all was silent, eerily so, not even the whispering that had been Jack's constant companion in the Throne Room resonated off the walls as it usually would have. Then, from a shadow, to the right, came an arrow, which embedded itself into the pillar right beside Jack's head. It was a warning shot. The silent question being 'is that all _you_ got'?

Jack couldn't stop the startled gasp that escaped him as the sand-arrow thudded point-deep into the pillar beside him. Whirling away he raised his staff to the ready, turning in slow circles to carefully survey the shadows on all sides, preparing for an attack from any direction.

The idea struck him suddenly, and he could have almost groaned at his own stupidity. Fight smarter, not harder, right? With a bit of a grin, Jack dropped his staff curve down, until it lightly touched the ground beneath his feet. Immediately, the entire expanse of floor in all directions iced over in a fine, thin layer as smooth as glass and incredibly slick. Thanks to his powers, Jack was ever sure-footed on even the slipperiest of ice, but could the Nightmare King say the same?

"You forget however..." Pitchiner started "I can see you." _But you can't see me. _And with that, that, the black sand at Jack's feet began to shape itself into the form of perhaps no more than fifty tiny little gremlins, that swiftly began to claw their way up Jack's legs, scratching and biting as they went, their tittering quiet but low, befitting their size. It was clear at this point that the Nightmare King was simply playing with Jack, seeing how the boy would react...testing him.

Besides, The King had more ways to move than Jack knew, so he did not feel trapped in the slightest. It was a good effort, and one, perhaps that would have yielded results in the past...but not now.

Jack shrieked, frantically batting at the little black terrors currently scaling him like a tree. It proved ineffective however, and Jack could feel real panic creeping up upon him, heightened by innate abilities of the hissing, slithering things lurking in the dark corners of the room. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jack forced himself to freeze, tense as a piano wire, struggling to calm himself and ignore the tiny pricking pains as the gremlins scrabbled ever higher. Lips white and bloodless, he focused all his energy into summoning his ice to his skin. It forced him to stop his influence on the ice beneath his feet, leaving it susceptible to melting, but he was able to draw enough cold to the surface of his skin that the little gremlins began to freeze solid like tiny, ugly little figurines, which clattered to the ground at his feet. He found himself panting in exhaustion after that effort, the exacting control required, combined with the dozens of tiny but very present little cuts and pinpricks caused by the gremlin's assault having taken its toll. He attempted to straighten up, but found himself swaying ever so slightly, the pounding in his head from his earlier painful meeting with the wall escalating into a throbbing hum along with his heartbeat. Jack groaned before he could stop himself, a hint of blackness creeping into the edges of his vision.

Even if he fell here, it would not matter, he'd still put up the fight of a lifetime. Give the Nightmare King something to curse about later, at the very least. The thought put a bit of a grin back on Jack's face, just a tilt of the lips really.

"Bring it on, shadowman! I'm ready!"

An instant later found arms wrapping around Jack from behind, and his small body pulled against a taller, stronger one. "You know Jack," The King began, his voice soothing "I fought you myself because I didn't want my Fearlings playing with their food." a sinister pause, as Kozmotis leant down, whispering in Jack's ear "I didn't want them...playing with _mine._" And with that, The King took advantage of Jackson's weakened form, yanking the staff from his grasp and tossing it to one side, before he placed his hand on a cold cheek, one arm still wrapped around Jack's waist

"Sweet dreams, Jackson." The Nightmare King bid, the darkness seeming to swallow the pair as the King leant forwards to press a kiss to Jack's forehead, his lips tingling with the magic of sleep. He watched the boy go limp in his grasp, and watched the boy's face for a moment longer, before dropping him carelessly on the floor, and raising a hand.

As soon as the command was given, the Fearlings and Nightmare men swarmed, their hissing frantic and delighted as they swallowed Jack in their Darkness, feeding off of his dreams, leaving him nothing but nightmares in their wake. When next Jack awoke, he would find himself in a bedroom – dark of course – laying on top of a four-poster bed, with curtains wrapped around each post being made from what seemed like an almost gossamer deep purple fabric.

The room lacked personal touches. The vanity table was empty, but the large wardrobe was not. It was filled almost to the brim with a variety of clothes, all of which seemed to be male. The floor was cold stone, broken only by the royal purple rug in the middle of the room, and a window seat upon which sat an array of cushions. The perfect place for reading in the sun or weather-watching, no doubt. Most importantly however, was the significant and sheer drop that the window presented, of course. The message here was, of course. Escape was futile.


	2. No Signs to Guide Us Home

Jack awoke frightened, gasping and panting for breath as the last nightmare faded. Moaning, he rubbed his eyes, blinking at the subtle traces of black grit on his fingers. Nightmare sand, obviously. Jack had heard of it, but never before seen it in use. Or felt it, rather, and what he wouldn't give to never ever feel it again, the terror still heavy in his chest.

Sitting up and throwing back the covers, Jack took in the room at a glance before he strode to the window, the cold stone floors not bothering his bare feet in the slightest. Gazing through the large portal, he quickly noted that without his staff, there was no way to descend without causing very permanent, likely fatal damage. Of course, Pitch was nowhere near stupid enough to leave Jack armed, which was obvious by the faint itching sensation he experienced whenever the staff was too far away from himself for comfort. Not that Pitch cared about his comfort. The new clothes certainly reflected that, Jack thought wryly; and rather perturbed that he'd been re-dressed in his sleep. The new outfit was pure white; loose-flowing harem-style pants that were more cumbersome than comfortable, and a thin white shirt of the same clingy, swishy fabric with far too long sleeves that dangled over his fingertips, forcing him to push them up every few seconds. Both items bore delicate embroidery in gold threads along the neckline, cuffs and waistband, and the material itself was obviously high quality, for all its strange texture. All in all it was impractical in the extreme, and probably made him look like some sort of fair maiden.

Well, Jack thought ruefully, he certainly felt like a damsel, locked away in a high tower by a wicked man. Now all he needed was to be beset by a dragon, and a brave prince to ride in for the rescue. Looking out the window again at the jagged cliff face, Jack couldn't help but fight back tears, knowing that there was no prince and no imminent rescue awaiting him.

Jack was on his own; unarmed and in the hands of the enemy. It didn't get much worse than this. It was about then that, without warning, the door swung open.

Stepping into the room was a boy, clad head to do in tight black leather, decorated with silver clasps and buckles, some of which seemed to serve no useful purpose whatsoever, so than to make the outfit more aesthetically pleasing. In his hand, the boy held a staff, with what appeared to be a faintly glowing knife tied to the end of it. The boy looked to be about Jack's age, his white hair caught the light of the sun, which struggled to break through the dark clouds that covered the sky that day. No doubt it was likely to rain. It was shorter on one side, coming to brush the top of his ear, whilst on the other, it fell to mid-neck

Like Jack, he was pale, lithe but small in stature. He was perhaps a little taller. Bright blue eyes (much paler than Jack's own) couldn't help but look the new arrival up and down, before he smiled. He was not a vicious smile, but rather an amused one. The look however, did not last long, before the boy turned, and gestured for Jack to follow him before moving out into the hallway and starting down it with complete confidence.

Jack blinked, slightly stunned. Here he'd been expecting to be locked in with no escape, and no company save the King himself, and now, here he had an escort whose apparent physical similarities could not be ignored. Another winter spirit? He didn't look familiar, but Jack supposed, in a place like this anything was possible

Realizing he was dallying, Jack hurried to catch up, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Surely this castle had servants for that. Also, who cared? He was a prisoner anyways. Well, a prisoner with hallway privileges apparently, but whatever. He wasn't leaving here of his own volition, that was obvious. Ahead of him, Jack watched the slender figure for any hint of purpose, anything that might give away where they were headed and why, but if there was a hint, Jack didn't know enough to catch it. Resigning himself to waltzing straight into the unknown, Jack followed the boy, walking no more than three steps behind the whole way.

The boy did not bother to check whether or not Jack was following, given that he could hear Jack's footsteps as he padded along, barefoot. The leather-clad boy never spoke and never turned to look at Jack. He turned this way and that, apparently choosing the pathways with the most light. The windows were open in the hallways during the day, even if most of the days were filled with grim weather such as this, but not even that was Pitchiner's doing. He did however, have his ways.

However, eventually the Boy had to lead Jack further into the depths of the castle, where windows were sparse and the light even more. It was on those occasions that the light on the end of the boy's staff glowed more brightly. Any hissing from the nearby Fearlings rose for a moment before dying completely as they fled from the light.

When at last the boy came to a stop, it was before a large oaken door, which he opened without fanfare, and gestured for Jack to go inside. The boy did not enter with Jack, but watched from the doorway, his gaze falling on the room ahead. At the far end of the room sat large windows that seemed to span almost the entire length of the room, curtains open, bathing the room in a dim light. The only Fearlings in this room were small and trapped beneath large cabinets that held this or that, hiding from the sun. There was a relatively small Dining table in the centre of the room, but too small to be designed for public affairs. This was a place for more private meals, with one's family, when one was not entertaining diplomats and emissaries. Of course, that was an occurrence that was happening less and less.

The room was empty, but set before one of the chair (one that was not placed at the head of the table), sat a few plates of food. Fruit and bread and even some cold meat, and goblets of wine and water. There was even a small jug of fruit juice. No doubt it was a confusing sight for Jack.

Jack entered the room hesitantly, made even more apprehensive by the fact that his guide did not follow him forward. Cautiously, he approached the table. Jack had lost all track of time since he'd been taken, unsure of how long he'd spent unconscious and trapped, the murky light filtering in through the windows making it difficult to even determine the time of day. If he knew one thing though, Jack knew that it had been long enough that he was hungry. Famished even, truth be told. The colourful array of food spread out like a one-person banquet was incredibly tempting, surprised as he was to see it. It surprised him as much as the room had, as he'd honestly expected to awaken in a cold, dark cell, and be fed gruel for the rest of his days. Assuming he'd awoken at all! But here, there was a feast before him, whether or not Jack could trust it was the only question. He didn't think Pitch would go through all this trouble just to poison him now, but that didn't mean the food might not be otherwise drugged. Faltering at the edge of the table in his wariness, Jack turned to his companion hoping for some answers.

Seeing the confusion on the new arrival's face was understandable in the leather-clad boy's mind. He had heard about the 'battle'. Jack had put up a good show it seemed, but Pitchiner was more or less simply playing with his food by the end of it. Apparently, Kozmotis found Jack's fears rather tasty. Luckily, Jack's escort had very few Nightmares with very few fears to prey upon. Not to mention, he had the light of the moon on his side.

Moving into the room, the pale-skinned boy moved over to Jack and turned to the food, reaching out and tearing bits and pieces from each plate, eating them as he went. When the boy had first arrived at the castle, he had been wary of the food at first as well – of everything. But all of Pitchiner's tormenting always had a point and purpose, but he had made his point to the moon-child long ago. He smiled softly at Jack before reaching for a goblet, and taking a sip, replacing it and reaching for the other one.

From the looks of Jack's outfit, the leather-clad boy could tell what Pitchiner had in store for the other boy...and it made him sad to think about it. He wasn't supposed to talk to Jack, but being in his company was permitted. There was no point in Pitchiner drugging Jack, or harming him any more than necessary. Kozmotis would have his way, whatever happened.

The boy looked at Jack for a moment more, before he pulled out the chair that stood between them and gestured for Jack to sit, before taking a sip from the goblet in his hand and moving over to the large window, watching the grim skies pointedly. He did not want to encourage Jack enough that he might try to start a conversation.

Jack sat himself carefully, still feeling wary of the situation despite the other boy's attempts at reassuring him. He carefully selected a ripe piece of fruit, holding it up under careful scrutiny, before finally taking the plunge and placing it on his tongue. He almost moaned at the rich taste. The Winter Lands of his home, while beautiful, had for obvious reasons not been particularly fertile, and while Jack and his people did not require meals as often as most other races, they did need to eat. Unfortunately, most of the foods available were small game, roots and tubers, and whatever they could coax to grow in special greenhouses. It made for bland, tasteless foods for the most part, and importing fresh foods was difficult at best and practically impossible after Pitch had come to power. This though, this was divine; the scent, the texture, the ripeness of the fruit on his tongue, the juices sliding down his throat. Jack had never tasted the like in his life, and he found himself caving completely to his hunger and falling upon the banquet like a starving creature. Which, possibly he was, having no idea how long it had been since he'd last eaten; his ravenous appetite making itself known for the first time since his capture, now that most of the immediate threats to his safety were no longer present. Assuming, of course, that the boy didn't mean him any harm.

Twisting in his seat to scrutinize the boy, Jack wondered who he was, why he was here. What role did he play here, in the Nightmare Kingdom? Was he friend? Or merely an uninterested foe? Jack figured caution was probably the most prudent option, turning his chair sideways to the table, so he could continue to eat with one hand, while better able to face the boy currently admiring what may have passed as scenery. Although the boy looked for all the world like he was attempting to forget Jack existed, Jack wasn't going to let the opportunity to get some answers pass him by.

"So, you got a name? Or do I need to make one up?"

For a moment, Jack's (for lack of a better word) companion turned to look at him, before turning back to the window, obviously hesitating. He wanted to speak to Jack, but he was not allowed, and more to the point, he was shy. The loneliness that the castle was shrouded in almost suited Jack's escort, had it not been for the fact that he was the rather playful sort. He liked to be in the company of others, and was usually just happy to listen, when he did not feel he had to be a Guardian of sorts. There were few people in this castle worth protecting, simply because they did not need it.

Then, the pale haired boy was struck with an idea, and turned, practically bounding towards Jack with surprising speed, deftly pulling out the chair beside Jack's own and hopping onto it, balancing his weight on his toes. He could not speak to Jack, but that did not mean he could not communicate. He stared at Jack for a moment, before tapping the side of his own head and then pointing at Jack. _Guess_. The gesture tried to say.

"Um, I'm probably not the best partner for a game of charades..." Jack trailed off under the other boy's enthusiastic gaze. Well, someone was talking to him, err, trying to communicate with him at least. Someone who wasn't the Source of All Known Evil, so really, Jack could at least give it a shot. Not that it would be easy, mind you. This would be a lot more efficient with quill and parchment. Jack wasn't the strongest reader or writer, having been forced to abandon his education early to care for his sister, but even he could likely have muddled through. Cocking his head a bit at the boy in front of him, Jack figured his best bet was to just go with it, After all, the more time he killed now in this room, the less time was sent cooped up alone and waiting for the other shoe to drop. With that thought in his mind, Jack found it a lot easier to smile at his companion.

"Y'know, if you don't at least give me a hint, I'm gonna have to start at the A's and just keep going."

Grinning, the pale boy at his charge's side, raised one finger and then tapped his arm with two. Two syllables. Then, he raised a finger again. First word. It was then of course that he brought to hands together and placed them to the side of his face, tilting it to the side and closing his eyes, making a point to breathe evenly, making slight whistling noises as he did so. After a moment, he looked at Jack almost expectantly; eyes open as he straightened up again.

"Um, Nap time? No wait, that's two words." Jack wracked his brain trying to think of any other options, squinting at the boy pantomiming sleep beside him. "Sleeping? Snoring? Napping? Dreaming? Am I warm at all, or making a fool out of myself?" Jack stopped, backtracked and then huffed a quiet sound that could almost have been a laugh, the corner of his lip creeping up in the frail little mockery of a grin. "Not that I'm ever warm, being a winter child and all..."

The sprite-like boy on the chair beside Jack simply smiled and put a hand over his mouth for a moment before shaking his head at the boy. It was then that the boy stood and moved to place a foot on the dark wooden table, hoisting himself up easily and gesturing to the window and then bringing his index fingers together and moving them to form a circle and then proceeded to dot the space around the imagined circular object quite randomly, and then jumping in place excitedly and pointing to the window again, just as the sun began to peek through the clouds that were gathering in the sky overhead.

But when it disappeared again from sight, the boy stopped jumping, and looked after the sun for a moment, a frown on his face - just for a moment. Then of course, the boy turned back to Jack with a smile and an expectant look on his face, miming the circle with the dots one more time, and then brought his hands together in a sleeping motion one more time, head tilted to the side.

That was his hint.

Jack blinked slowly, staring at the other boy in confusion. "Um, Ok, was that the Moon? Stars? Sky? No wait, two syllables..." Jack sat back in his chair, tapping one long forefinger on his chin, food completely forgotten as he attempted to puzzle through the mystery set before him. "So sleeping, something that looks like a moon or night sky, so night time, but also something bright like the sun, right? So, Moonlight? Stardust? Aurora's too many syllables, and seems kinda girly besides..." Jack grinned a bit as he trailed off, to let the other know he was kidding. "How about... Starshine? Nightlight? Moonbeam?" Please say I'm close; I'm running out of ideas unless you give me another hint!"

As the other boy thought, the sprite-like boy began to smile slowly, resisting the urge to nod along with his charge's direction of thought lest he wind up confusing the pale-haired boy. Jack it seemed was tough but...perhaps a little slow on the uptake and perhaps easily confused, but given that his escort did not yet feel comfortable enough to actually speak to Jack, he did not want to risk finding out at present. He did not of course, think badly of Jack. He didn't want to be mean, after all. Still, the leather-clad boy listened, smiling a little wider when he found the other to be joking. He wasn't the sort to be easily offended and being called a girl wasn't necessarily new. Besides, he was just happy that Jack was beginning to joke with him at all.

Friends are important in dark times, after all.

As suddenly as the word left Jack's lips however, The boy jumped eagerly back into his chair, crouching down and pointing at Jack excitedly and smiling, but it took him a moment to indicate the number two with just as many fingers before returning to pointing, even going to far as to poke Jack on the shoulder insistently. Jack was _almost_ there..!

"Two?" Jack blinked, than frowned a bit in thought. "Two, the second one? You mean, Nightlight?" Jack leaned it a bit closer to his new... well, friend might be a bit too strong of a word for a guy he'd just met, but friendly acquaintance would probably do.

Jack gazed at the other boy, hoping he was right, if only to end the guessing game he was obviously very poor at. "Is that you're name then, Nightlight?"

Nodding, Nightlight hopped off the chair he was crouched on and stood behind Jack's chair, grabbing the white-haired male's head gently but firmly, and turning it towards the food pointedly. Eat, the gesture said. He wasn't really supposed to touch Jack either, but it seemed like the boy needed a firm hand, and given that the walls had both eyes and ears in this place, he would be having words with Kozmotis later, if the other man was bothered enough by the news.

It was then of course that he turned away from Jack and moved back over to his place by the window, determined, this time, not to interact with the other any more than he was truly allowed. He was only supposed to escort the boy around the castle until Jack learnt his way around.

The hands on Jack's head were gentle, yet insistent, so he relented and turned himself toward the task of eating. The bulk of his hunger had already been sated, but Jack found room for a couple more pieces of fruit and another glass of water before decided he was finished. Pushing the plate aside in an obvious gesture of finality, he slouched back, patting his full stomach contentedly.

"So I don't know who does the cooking here, but can I say, well done? I'm gonna go and get fat if this keeps up."

Jack offered his now-silent companion a cheshire grin, hoping the boy was only allowing him space to eat and not ignoring him deliberately. The quiet and stillness of this place was starting to grate at him; he was used to the Winter Forest, where there was always life and movement, whether from the wind in the trees or the rustle of animals in the underbrush. The village, his home, had never been placid at all save for the darkest part of the night; no, there was always commotion and activity as people had went about their daily routines. It was enough to drive a boy a wee bit mad, he figured, and hoped that his current company would be sticking around for a while, at least.

In truth, Nightlight was not long for Jack's company. He was only meant to show Jack the way...for a while. Jack was supposed to learn, according to Kozmotis. Jack wasn't supposed to have company...but knowing he COULD have some was...it was meant to torture Jack. Nightlight didn't like cruelty of any kind, but he had no choice. Not here, not now. Perhaps in time, but not yet.

He felt terribly for Jack, and when he turned to face the similarly pale boy, his smile did not reach his eyes. This was not a good place, and soon, Jack would know that for certain, whether wanted to or not. "I'm sorry." Nightlight couldn't help but blurt out. He didn't know exactly what was to happen to Jack, but dressed as he was, the King could have very few things in mind. As soon as the words left his lips, Nightlight bite his lip and made his way quickly for the door, gesturing for Jack to follow, noticing that Jack had eaten enough. He only wished he could tell him to eat more. He had said a few too many words already.

This wouldn't be the last time he saw Jack, but it would be the last time that day.

He did not pause as he made his way down the hallway. He was not, however, going in the same direction he had come. Jackson Overland Frost was not returning to his designated bedroom. Not yet, at least.


	3. We're Too Far Out

"Hey Nightlight! Wait, you can talk?" Jack stumbled or an uneven spot in the floor, nearly face-planting into the harsh stone beneath his feet in his rush to keep up with his escort. "No really, you can? Why all the charades and gesturing and ridiculousness back there, then? You having a go at me, or what?" Jack scowled, unimpressed with the very notion. "Seriously, I thought we were having a good time, now what is all this? What's the big rush?" Jack nearly tripped again, losing track of his footing in favour of trying to overtake his companion enough to look him in the face. He was unsuccessful as a third misstep actually brought him to one knee, hissing in pain at the sharp crack of kneecap to slate. It didn't delay him for long however, and he scrambled back to his feet to catch up with the other male.

It wasn't until the second left that Jack realized the hallways, while very similar to what he'd seen, were not in fact, the same as before. If fact, despite the windows that lined them, they seemed to be getting darker, little by little as they progressed. It's possible too that the halls were narrowing as well, pressing in on them, causing Jack to feeling increasingly claustrophobic. A thin sheen of seat broke out in his nervousness, and he could feel and edge of panic creeping up into his thoughts. Jack swallowed heavily, trying to push it aside and tell himself that it was only the presence of the Shadow men or feelings in the castle that could make him feel this way. Even if he couldn't see them, they could always be there; hiding lurking, waiting to pounce... right, train of thought not helping.

Distracted by his increasing anxiety, Jack didn't notice that they'd reached their destination until he'd about run into Nightlight's back.

Nightlight made a point to ignore Jack's scrambling, even as he fell, knowing he would be in much more trouble if he touched Jack...especially after speaking with him the way he had (not that he hadn't all ready). In fact, whatever happened, Nightlight was going to be in a lot of trouble. So, the way Nightlight saw it, after a moment's thought; in for a penny, in for a pound. It hurt to think that Jack thought him ridiculous, but that could be easily remedied, and when he heard Jack's footsteps stop and his front brush against him arms, Nightlight looked over his shoulder at the pale blond.

"We're not supposed to speak to you." He explained quickly and quietly "Or touch you...so don't hurt yourself." He said, looking down the hallways for a moment, as if to help Jack recall his previous tumble. What Nightlight had meant to say of course was: we won't help you. It was more than he had said to anyone in the longest time, and Nightlight couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious and perhaps guilty that these many words and been spoken to a perfect stranger. "You-" He started falteringly, glancing around for a moment, the point of his spear glowing more brightly for a moment "You belong to him now...you must call him 'Sire' or 'My King'," He explained, his gaze never leaving Jack's for the seriousness of the matter "Unless you are directed to call him by another name."

Nightlight wasn't the type to get nervous of the Dark, but the Fearlings were always more numerous when the nightmares King was near. It was too early for Pitchiner to be up and about, despite the dim weather outside and the darkness that Fearling's provided. Kozmotis was a man of routine, and he would be in his other rooms for some time before he would come to find Jack. Pitchiner rarely slept, if he ever did...Nightlight had never seen him take so much as a power nap.

Turning away from Jack at last, Nightlight moved forwards, throwing the door to the room in front of him open and stepping inside to hold the door open for Jack. The room was dark, save for a few dimly lit candles, that almost seemed suffocated in the darkness of the room, as opposed to fighting the darkness as light was accustomed to doing. The first thing one would notice was the copious amount of books, looking quite at home upon the countless shelves that lined the walls of the room. The second thing was the empty, unlit fireplace with a cluster of living chairs arranged in a comfortable semi-circle around it, as well as a number of tables and chairs arranged about the room, no doubt there to aid people in their studies...for that is what this was. A Study.

Nightlight gestured to a soft-looking chaise which seemed to be in stark contrast to the rest of the room which was all deem browns, regal reds, elegant greens and of course, inky black. The chaise was white, the brightness of the object softened by the low glow of the candlelight. "...Stay in this room...and don't leave it." He instructed Jack pointedly. He only hoped Jack wouldn't disobey him.

"Stay..." Somewhat stunned, Jack gaped at the other boy. "You can't just... just leave me here for HIM to find! What am I supposed to do? I mean, what does he want from me, anyways? He's already proven he's stronger than me, so what else is there? I mean, I'm going to assume if he wanted me dead, I'd be dead, right? Not all dolled up like this, rested and well fed." He Jack paused to punctuate his point by tugging on the hem of his shirt, as if indicating the quality of the fabric and craftsmanship. He then stepped forward, turning his beseeching gaze to the slim, pale figure before him.

"Nightlight please, if you know what he wants then tell me, please. I mean, if I'm here to die, I want to be prepared, If it's something else, then I need to know what I'm up against. Please Nightlight, please..." Jack was ashamed to feel the burning of unshed tears hot and sharp behind his eyes, feeling his throat close over in fear and grief, the tightness choking off his last few words. Staring at the only friendly face Jack was beginning to suspect existed in this dark palace, the winter spirit could only pray for any small scrap of pity, or empathy to be thrown his way.

Seeing those tears well up in Jack's eyes made Nightlight pause. He _hated_ crying. It wasn't nice, and it meant unhappiness and if there was one thing Nightlight lived for, it was happiness. He liked to _be_ happy and he liked to _see_ others happy, too. Of course, happiness was a luxury in a place like this, so Nightlight tried to hang on to every bit of it he could find. "I'm sorry," He said, looking away for a moment. "I've already said too much." He shouldn't have said anything at all.

Turning back to Jack, Nightlight moved forwards, seizing Jack bodily and shoved him into the room, closing the doors quickly and pulling a key from his pocket in order to lock the door with a final, loud click. If Jack was anything like him, which Nightlight suspected was the case, he knew Jack would have just opened the door again and tried to speak to him – to get answers. Of course, there was no room for disobedience...and Nightlight very much knew he was in trouble.

Of course, Nightlight did not move, and instead stood upright in front of the door, Staff held upright as well, and he stared straight ahead. It was also his job to stand vigil – to keep Jack safe and to keep Jack in line. He wasn't supposed to be a friend. He was a guard, and not one necessarily meant for his protection.

Jack had barely a moment to realize what was happening when he felt Nightlight's hands on his shoulders. Letting out a startled and undignified squawk, Jack stumbled through the doorway, aided by the firm shove the other boy had given him. Jack caught his footing quickly and lunged for the rapidly closing door, but it was too late. The door slammed shut, the lock clicking with finality. For a second Jack just stood there, stunned and no small amount of hurt, before the panic that had been festering in the back of his mind exploded, encouraged by the Fearlings that hissed from the shadowy corners. The first thump of Jack's hand to the door was barely felt, although he knew distantly that he'd hit the door hard enough that it should have stung. The second thump was the other hand, and he definitely should've felt that. The clawing, grasping panic had him firmly in its grips now though, icy cold sweat turning to frost at his temples and between his shoulder blades. Jack's breathing echoed harshly in the closed space his great, gasping breaths ragged and interspersed by little desperate whining noises from deep in his throat. His eyes stare at the closed door, praying for pity or mercy from the other side, praying that Nightlight was still there and hadn't walked away, that he would let him out and take him away from this terrible place; would take Jack _home..._

Jack choked suddenly, remembering that there was no home left, that the village was gone and so was his sister, and oh Moon his sister, she was gone and there was no body to be found, and oh Moon, maybe she was a Fearling now, maybe she was in this room and snarling at him from the depths of a shadow and Jack couldn't get out, why couldn't he get out, oh letmeoutletmeoutletmeout... Jack was shrieking the words now, an endless refrain punctuated by the pounding of his now-bloody fists. The malicious murmuring from all corners seemed to rise higher, driving Jack's terror through the roof, right to the breaking point, and...

Jack's voice caught suddenly, throat too raw and dry to continue on; his face was streaked with panicked tears, and meat of his palms was bruised, split open and bleeding sluggishly down his upraised forearms from the abuse. The inability to scream seemed to bring him up short, as he felt his arms stop almost without his permission, tense limbs quivering with exhaustion. His already-weak knees turned to water beneath him and Jack slid to the floor, bracing himself against the door to stay upright, his wrecked hands leaving ugly, crimson smears down the length of hardwood. Slumped to the floor, in the dimness of the room, covered in his own blood and tears and scrubbed naked and raw with fear and agony, Jack buried his face in his hands and sobs.

It was hours before anyone came to attend to Jackson. If Nightlight was there, he did not answer and did not attempt to reassure the boy. It was hard to say when exactly anyone turned up, but if Jackson had had the presence of mind to open one of the deep burgundy curtains in the room, he would have seen that the moon was out and the night was in full-swing.

"Oh, don't you look adorable." Came a voice from behind Jackson. It was a familiar purr, one that would be difficult to forget. Kozmotis Pitchiner stood in the light of a dim candle, the shadows partially concealing him even then.

Jack spun about, tumbling onto his rump ungracefully and chocked in his gasp, the action sending him into a flurry of coughing, the force of which was so harsh it felt like little knives being driven into his chest and parched throat. Fumbling, Jack tried to push himself up, but with one hand at clutching at his chest in a feeble attempt to still the coughing and his legs long gone numb and stiff with disuse, it was nearly impossible to right himself properly. Instead, he found himself heaving breathlessly, tears of pain and fear still sliding down his cheeks as he stared, wide-eyed and terrified into the golden gaze of the Nightmare King. Even in the shadows the man cut an imposing figure, and as Jack struggled to regain his breath, he knew that nothing good could possibly come to pass in this room.

The Nightmare King's chest rose and fells slowly and pointedly in what he could only assume was a silent sigh. One hand was tucked under his chin as his other arm was used to support the other "Did I frighten you?" He asked, the smallest smirk gracing his features in amusement "I would have used the door, but..." He lifted a hand, his fingers uncurling from beneath his chin was as he extended his arm out, gesturing to the wooden barrier. He left the sentence unfinished. Jackson knew what he had been doing.

Moving forward fluidly, Pitchiner crossed the room and reached out, taking Jackson's hands in his own and turning the other's palms up "Look what you've done to yourself, Jackson." He said, obviously disapproving "blood everywhere...and after my servants took such care dressing you." There was a pause as Pitchiner released one of Jack's hands in favour of reaching forwards and gripping Jackson's chin firmly and he tilted the other's head up to look at him. "They thought you were the prettiest doll." He said with a chuckle.

"Of course, I won't tolerate any more of this undignified behaviour in future, is that understood."

Beneath the overwhelming fear, Jack felt his hackles rise. Prettiest doll? Boys weren't pretty, or doll-like either! Jack was insulted by the very insinuation. Although his terror quickly smothered the small bit of defiance like a tiny candle flame, something of it must have shown in his eyes, because the intense golden gaze fixated on him suddenly sharpened. Realizing he'd probably dug himself an inescapable hole without even having to speak, Jack felt himself began to tremble in the terrible hold of the Nightmare King.

"Am I _understood_?" The King repeated with a growl – something he was loathe to do, and if Jack were to make him do it again, this evening might not go as Kozmotis had planned. That said, plans could always be subject to change; that much Pitchiner was aware of and more than able to handle.

Jack wanted to flinch at the growl in the Nightmare King's voice, but somehow he held firm. The bruising grip on his chin might have had something to do with it; the tight clutch grounding him, the slight pain giving him a focal point in the widening ocean of his own terror. Logically, Jack knew that his heightened anxiety was the result of the Fearlings hissing at him from the darkened corners, and of course, the presence of Pitchiner himself. All the logic in the world though couldn't stop his heart from thrumming overtime in his chest, or his bruised and bloody palms from sweating, or the faint tremble from taking his limbs.

No, Jack was petrified with fear. The smart thing, at this point, would be to agree to whatever the King wanted, and hope that it meant fewer traumas in the long run

Unfortunately, Jack was never all that smart when it came to silly little things like self preservation. Raising blue eyes to meet stark gold, Jack licked suddenly dry lips and let fly a single word, while he still had a modicum of courage left.

"_Murderer."_

Jack's voice shook a little, but he gave it no mind. If he was going to die tonight, let him do so with no regrets.


End file.
